


Finding Him Again

by so_get_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_get_this/pseuds/so_get_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-fall. John is struggling to cope with the loss of his best friend. Pretty angsty, but it does have a happy ending I promise! Definite eventual Johnlock.</p><p>Originally posted on fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

I stand alone at his grave, waiting for Mrs Hudson's footsteps on the soft gravel to grow far enough away. So many emotions, so many words. I hear his voice in my head, "sentiments" he scoffs. I wish he was here to say it for real. I wouldn't even care that he was making fun of me if only he was here to do it.

"One more miracle, Sherlock, just for me." I say, the words cold and bitter in my mouth. "Don't be...dead."

I can't stop the tears that fall.

In the the taxi on the way home, I shiver as we pass out of the gates to the cemetery. I don't like them. They're for all the people doctors couldn't save. It makes me feel so powerless, though god knows I feel powerless enough now that he's gone.

I close my eyes for an instant and I can suddenly see him. Standing on top of St Barts.  _This is my note._ A sinking feeling rushes through me as I remember the exact instant when I realised...what he was about to do.

Even as I ran to help him I knew it was too late. But I knew I had to try. I remember feeling his wrist, so cold, waiting for a pulse that never came.

I'm brought back into the real world by the cabbie tapping on the partition.

"Mate, we're here?" he says uncertainly. I look outside the window and see the familiar black door. 221B Baker Street.

I pay him, then slowly walk up to the door. I take the key out of my pocket and push it into the lock. I'm almost afraid of what I might find on the other side.

The hallway still smells the same – musty with a hint of damp. I can hear Mrs Hudson humming to herself as she does the washing up. I can hear the sound of the postman whistling as he delivers another parcel to Mrs Hafner, the German lady next door. I don't know why she needs so many. Sherlock would.

I can't hear all the important things. Explosions. Violins. Bullets hitting the poor wall interjected with  _bored bored bored._ No shouting at the tv  _I don't care how accurate the test is, she has to be cheating, just look at that shirt, and come on his brother is the father of their child, his shoes, ask him about his shoes, idiots all of them idiots, they're not observing, John, NOT OBSERVING!_

I miss that.

As I stand in the doorway looking over all his things I feel so utterly lost and completely alone. It just doesn't feel like home without him.

A single tear rolls down my cheek and hits the floor with a gentle splash. It sounds like an almighty guncrack in the absolute emptiness that he's left me.

I miss everything about him. His brilliance. The way his eyes shone when he was nearly, but not quite, outwitted. The fear I saw in that instant when I opened my jacket and he realised that I was the next bomb. The amused guilt he felt when I pointed out yet another social blunder. The way he looked out for me, always.

He would never show that he cared about me but I knew it all the same. I know he wouldn't have left me without a reason, there must have been a reason. He was such a brave intelligent man, he would never have killed himself unless there was a reason. Although there were, of course, times that I doubted his humanity, I know he would have been logical to the end. If there had been another way, he would have taken it, and that thought comforts me a little. I can only guess at what his death can have achieved. I know the answers are there, but I can only look. I can never observe like he can. Like he could.

"I don't want to be alone," I whisper. I don't know who I thought would hear my words. Sherlock, maybe? Looking down on me? Or, more likely, looking up. Heaven would bore him to death. Eternal torture and damnation would no doubt amuse him, and would at least keep his mind busy.

I'm starting to sound like a crazy person. Is this a normal reaction to death? I know somewhere in my medical training I learned how to cope, but all I can think about is him. The amazing Sherlock Holmes, the world's best and only consulting detective. My best friend.


	2. Chapter Two

The next day I wake to a searing pain in my leg. Every step I take is agony. For the first time in almost a year I findmyself reaching for my cane. Psychosomatic or not, it feels so real. But Sherlock's not here to order me to put the cane down, stop being such a fool, and get on with it. Sherlock's not here.

I limp slowly to the kitchen, relying heavily on my cane, and I put the kettle on. The usually comforting whistle fills the flat, attempting to push away the silence. Failing to push away the silence. As I sit and drink my tea I can't help but go over in my mind the last time I'd seen him...alive.  _This is my note._

I slam my cup down and shout out to the world "he wasn't a fake, he was never a fake!"

Then I break down in tears.

That's how Mrs Hudson finds me over an hour later: tea everywhere, my head in my hands, sobbing like a child.

Mrs Hudson places a soft blanket round my shoulders and leads me to my room. She lies me down on the bed and hands me a box of tissues.

"Why did he do it," I say, more to myself than to her, as she pulls the curtains closed.

"Sherlock always had his reasons," she replies sadly. "Now you try and get some rest. You look like you need it."

She switches off the light and begins to close the door.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes?"

"He's not coming back, is he." My voice cracks slightly and I have to swallow a few times to hold back the next wave of tears.

"I'm sorry," is all she says before the door clicks quietly shut and I give myself over to the dreams.

Over the next few days I lose track of the number of times I break down into great sobs that shake my whole body and take over my mind entirely. The nightmares come whenever I close my eyes. Sherlock falling, lying unmoving on the pavement, blood spilling from his once flawless body. Broken. I wake screaming.

Mrs Hudson keeps pushing me to go back to counselling. I can't. I don't want to talk to anyone about him. But to keep her happy I pretend to go. At 2pm sharp I wander down to the park down the road and sit for a few hours before making my way home. I know she suspects I'm lying to her, but we both pretend I went. Just like we both pretend I don't wake her again and again in the night as I cry out for Sherlock in my sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

**TRIGGER WARNING: attempted suicide and use of painkillers for self-medication. Don't try this at home. No, seriously, please don't. It's not good for you. But reading this is very good for you, so I suggest you do so immediately ;)**

* * *

I find myself getting headaches, feeling sick. Most days I have to stay in bed, only getting up to make myself a cup of tea or a sandwich. Mrs Hudson goes shopping for me and adds it onto the rent. For some reason Mycroft has decided he will cover the rent for me until I get back on my feet - I don't tell him that I'm never going to just recover from this, but then I guess it's not like he's short of money.

Eventually I give in and take a couple of painkillers for my headache. To my surprise I find that as it takes away the pain in my head it also numbs the pain in my heart. This is my release, I think, this is how I'll cope. So I start taking a couple a day. Then I find myself taking one every 4 hours like clockwork - just to get me through the day. But then it stops working and the ache in my chest returns with a passion. So I take two every 4 hours. Not enough to overdose, just enough to curb the pain. Eventually painkillers make their way onto my weekly shopping list - next to milk and bread. If Mrs Hudson notices, she doesn't say anything.

One night I wake up screaming, sweating, my sheets wrapped around me. And I think, what's the point? Why must I keep going like this? And something inside me just gives up. I make my way slowly to the bathroom and take all 5 boxes of sweet pain relief out of the medicine cabinet. 80 tablets. Will that be enough to overdose? Will that be enough to kill me? I realise I don't care. But I hope it is.

I pour myself a large glass of water and put the first pills in my mouth.

"Here's to you, Sherlock," I whisper in final recognition of my one true friend. My one true love. Then I swallow.

* * *

I wake up in a hospital bed. There is an IV drip in my left arm and a kind looking nurse standing at the end of my bed, inspecting the chart there.

"Ah, John, you're awake," says a voice to my right, and I turn my head to see none other than Mycroft Holmes sitting at my side.

"Not like you to do bed calls," I comment dryly.

"I felt the situation required it," he replies.

"I expect you we're spying on me?" I spit out bitterly.

"Surveillance, John, merely surveillance." I snort derisively, but he chooses to ignore me.

Mycroft explains to me the whole situation - how he's been 'worried' about me, so he set up cameras and a team to 'watch over me'. Spying, I think, but I keep it to myself. One of his men saw me and immediately alerted the hospital. I've been unconscious for several hours but all the drugs have been removed from my body and it doesn't look like there's any permanent damage. I make it perfectly clear that I am returning to 221B, and he tells me that he's arranged for me to go home, but only under the condition that someone moves in with me permanently so I have someone there on a daily basis to keep an eye on me.

"I've got Mrs Hudson!" I protest.

"Who is not always there," he retorts. There is a pause. "What about your sister?"

"What about her?"

"She could stay with you."

I am about to tell him exactly where he can put that idea, but then I look straight into his eyes. I've never seen himlook more haunted or more afraid or more vulnerable, though he's hiding it well. I am reminded suddenly of all the times Sherlock would ask me to do crazy stupid things and how I'd risk my life for him without a second thought. And I realise how much the loss of his brother has hurt Mycroft and how much it's costing him to sit there and try to look after the last man to see his brother alive. So I simply say, "ok," and then roll over, close my eyes, and gratefully drift into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

When I awake this time, Mycroft has left, and in his place is Harry. She is curled up across two chairs, fast asleep. She looks so young and innocent, and I feel a sudden rush of love for my sister. She's been through so much, I think, but she's still helping me. As though she can hear my thoughts, she twitches slightly, moans something about being tired and opens her eyes. She scowls good-naturedly when she sees me watching her.

"Hey sleepyhead," she teases, " you ready to go home?"

The journey back to 221B is long and tense. I can see Harry sneaking worried glances at me all the way, but I just look out of window and pretend she's not there. Once inside the flat, I give her a short tour, only pausing when we reach Sherlock's room.

"I guess you could sleep in here..." I start to say, but she places a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm just fine on the sofa," she smiles understandingly. I smile sadly in return.


	4. Chapter Four

I've been trying to get my life back together. Harry has convinced me to get a job at the local clinic. At the moment, it's only voluntary, so I'm not earning yet, but it does help. It's a distraction, a way to hide my own problems behind those of everybody else. Plus it's flu season, so I've been a welcome addition to the clinic, especially since I'm willing to do double shifts and night shifts, and have even volunteered to do both Christmas and New Year's. Anything to get out of that damn flat. It's been months since Sherlock's suicide, and I'm not even starting to come to terms with it. It's so hard - to have to go from being closer to him that to anyone else, to suddenly never being able to talk to him or even see him ever again. But like i said, work is helping. Nobody there knows me or recognises me, and nobody mentions Sherlock. For 8 beautiful hours each day I don't have to think. I'm not John Watson, I'm just A Doctor and all I have to do is know about real physical injuries, not people's thoughts or reasons for doing things or anything else. Certainly not my own feelings.

Then one day something wonderful happens. It's New Year's day and Dr Murphy has just relieved me from my overnight shift. I walk along the river back to Baker Street, taking my time. The sun has already risen, bright and bold on this cold winters morning. A soft breeze brushes against my face, making me shiver. I spy a bench facing out onto the river and I sit and watch as cafe windows light up and people drag themselves out of bed after last night's celebrations. Eventually, I stand and start to walk on.

That's when I see it. A figure enveloped in shadows, just in the alley between two houses. And I know as sure as I know my own name that it's him, that he's alive, and that he's finally come home to fix me. Barely even thinking straight, I'm suddenly running. I must see him properly, I must reach him.  _Please_. The figure slips back and I can't see him anymore, but I'm still running because I have to catch him. Breathing hard, heart pounding, giddy with anticipation, I reach the alley and rush down it, knocking over a dustbin and setting off a dog's barking in my all-consuming need to see him up close.

But. The alley is a dead end. The walls too high to climb. He... wasn't here. But I saw him, I know I saw him. I walk slowly back up the alley, past the barking dog, past the spilled bin. I'm in so much of a daze that I almost don't see the sleek black car pull up beside me. The back window rolls down, and I see Mycroft Holmes looking up at me wearily.

"Get in," he says quietly. I walk around the car and slide in beside him.

"Drive," he orders the main in the front, before turning to me. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he remarks with a wry smile.

"I think I might have," I reply, shakily. He regards me closely as I recount the whole story.

"So you think you saw Sherlock?" he says when I'm done.

"I know what I saw."

"John, he's dead. You know he is. You saw him jump. You saw him."

"I know what I saw." I repeat, bitterly. "But I know that if there's anyone on this planet who could figure out how to survive that, it's Sherlock Holmes."

He has no reply for that.

* * *

We stop outside 221B a few minutes later.

"Don't... don't do anything rash, John."

"I promise. Don't I always?" I snap, before slamming the car door behind me. I walk inside, then slowly up the stairs, before sitting in his chair. I had seen him, I know I had, and each passing second makes me more certain of this fact.

I run over in my mind the moment he jumped from St Barts - he jumped, he fell, he.. landed? I realise suddenly that I never saw him hit the ground, that stupid building was in the way. And the cyclist that hit me as I ran to Sherlock, was that an accident, or was it planned to delay me? Sherlock's body on the pavement too, it was positioned all wrong. He should have landed across the pavement, not parallel to it. His behaviour had been so strange, too. When I'd told him about Mrs Hudson he had just told me to go. This is the same man who had thrown an American agent out of the window multiple times just for hitting her, yet he wouldn't go see her when she was dying? Plus she wasn't dying, it was a fake call, so maybe he'd planned. He must have wanted me out of the way so he could face Moriarty alone. But why? Did he know Moriarty was going to kill himself? Maybe, I realised, he was never fooled at all. I feel a sudden rush of pride.  _Moriarty never beat him_.

I think about his phone call to me.  _This is my note_. He expressed more emotions in that one call than he'd ever shown to me in the whole time I knew  him. It was so out of character for him. Why did he need me to believe in his suicide so badly that he would reduce himself to that?

And then it hits me. He's alive. Really and truly alive. I feel like shouting and punching the air in pure joy. I don't have to live without him anymore. Somehow, and God only knows how, he faked his own death. But  _why_?

* * *

Mycroft and Harry spend the next few days trying to persuade me that I didn't see Sherlock, that it was my mind paying tricks on me. I stand firm. Molly is especially keen for me to forget what I saw. She's been acting so strange lately, even more tired than usual, and less happy. I start suspecting her of being involved with his faked death, and bombard her with so many shouted questions that I reduce her to tears. It's at this point that I start to doubt what I saw, start to wonder if I was just imagining it.

Molly is very understanding, bless her, and she refuses to let me apologise.  _It's hard for all of us_ , she said,  _but he was your best friend. You miss him. It's ok._

During the days that I thought he was still alive, the nightmares left me. But as the doubt plants its ugly seed in my mind, they return with a vengeance, more vivid and heartbreaking than before. I always wake screaming.

Sherlock was everything to me, and it's almost like he's died all over again. But it's more painful this time, because I miss him so much more.

"Oh Sherlock," I whisper as I lie in bed that night, cold and alone, "I'm so broken. Won't you come home and fix me?"


	5. Chapter Five

That's when the notes start to arrive.

The first one says  **704, 2.**

It appears with the newspaper one morning, just two typed numbers stuck on the front page. I stare at it for hours, trying to figure out why it is there and what it means. Eventually I give up and stick it to the fridge with some blue tack.

The second arrives the following Sunday, attached to the newspaper as before.  **39, 29.**

I don't understand them. Yet they keep on coming, until I have 11 pieces of paper that flap each time I open the fridge. I make sure to number them, so they stay in the right order.

I spend hours each day trying with all my might to figure it out. Adding, multiplying, dividing, anything I can think of. I even buy a book on Numerology, but throw it away in disgust after a few chapters. One of the numbers,  **1448, 21**. appears twice, but I have no idea why.

On the next Sunday, no note appears. Nor the one after that. Nor the one after that. So the message (if it is a message) is complete. But I still don't have the first idea about how to decode it. As I sit in my armchair one Saturday afternoon, I find myself gazing around the room. As I do so, a gust of wind blows through the open window and causes a scrap of paper to fly off the mantelpiece and land on the floor next to my foot. As I bend to pick it up, I realise that it is not paper, but a photograph. The image is of a painting with yellow lines spray painted across it. I smile sadly as I recognise it from one of our cases. The lines were numbers used to make a code using one common book...

My thought trails off as I remember the notes. Numbers. So, my mind races, that means that this  _is_  a code, and that I can decode it, probably using a book in this flat, especially if... If the note is from  _Sherlock_. Maybe they're from Sherlock. Maybe he's okay. Once  again, as foolish as I know it is, I allow myself to hope. And maybe I'm clutching at straws, but I need to have a reason to keep breathing, and this is all I've got.

As I start through Sherlock's massive book collection, I realise that since the highest number is 1723, I can automatically discount any books that have less pages than that. Luckily, this rules out most of his books. Once I have my pile of nine thick volumes, I sit down and start trying to decode the message.

* * *

Nothing.

I have used each and every suitable book and I cannot get a single message that makes sense. I throw my pen down in frustration.

"Damn you Sherlock Holmes!" I shout angrily.

That night I don't sleep a wink, too stuck on these notes. Maybe I missed a book, I think, or maybe I got the numbers the wrong way round, or maybe I'm completely barking up the wrong tree

"Hopeless," I say. The word sounds sad and lonely and empty as it fills the room. So alone, I think, I'm so alone and so broken and I miss him. Maybe I did love him after all, I think sadly. Maybe...

* * *

I wake early next morning to the sound of the doorbell being rung, loudly and insistently. I stumble out of bed and pull on my dressing gown before yawning my way down the stairs.

"This had better be good," I mutter grumpily as I pull the door open to find… No one. Nothing but a newspaper on the doorstep.

"Stupid kids," I grumble as I pick up the paper and slam the door shut behind me. I make my way slowly back up the stairs and throw the paper on the kitchen table as I make myself a cup of tea.

Sitting down at the table, I open it out. And my jaw drops. There, beautifully painted across the front page is an Arabic script that I learnt in Afghanistan and never expected to see again. I stare at it for what seems like forever, minutes flowing into one another as I struggle to remember what it means. Then it comes to me.  _His room_.

I give up and go to work.

* * *

Whatever could it mean, I think to myself on the way back from the clinic. Why his room? And why was it written in Arabic? Is this something to do with the notes? What the hell is going on?!

When I get home, I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking. I am just dropping off to sleep when it comes to me. There is only one place in the entire flat that I have not searched for a suitable book for the code. Sherlock's room.  _His room_.

As I open the door, I'm hit by a wave of vaguely stale air. I feel like I'm intruding, although he hasn't been in here for months and months. And then I see it. A large dictionary sitting dormant on his bedside table. Sherlock only allows one dictionary in the house (for a variety of complex and mysterious reasons) and it is the only book that always stays in his room (for a variety of complex and mysterious reasons - albeit different ones).

Although everything else in the room is coated in a fine layer of dust, the dictionary is not. It has been used recently.

I hurry back to kitchen and arrange all the notes in order on the kitchen table before readying myself with a pen and post-it note to write down the code.

704, 2

39, 29

1444, 13

33, 22

79, 31

921, 33

553, 8

821, 1

704, 2

914, 31

1723, 25

I start decoding the message.

_I am still alive_

Oh god.

My heart leaps in my chest. He's still alive. I don't have to live without him anymore. I stand, grinning like a madman, and laugh out loud in pure unadulterated happiness. My Sherlock is still alive. God help him, he's got some explaining to do, but he is alive. Maybe it's going to be ok.

The next 4 words are:

_Ask Molly for letter_

I guess he left her something to keep safe before he threw himself off the damn building. Poor love probably doesn't even know what it's for.

Just three more to go

_I miss_

I stop there, with one note still to go. What does he miss? I feel a bubble of hope rise within me. Does he feel the same about me as I've always felt about him? With shaking hands, I open the dictionary to page 1723 and carefully count down to the 25th entry. My breath catches in my throat as I read the word I so longed to see.

_You._


	6. Chapter Six

I don't even bother about breakfast. As soon as I'm dressed, I rush straight over to Molly's flat, knocking loudly on her door. No reply. She must be at work already. Which means going to St Barts. Fear clutches at me, but no, he's ok, he's alive, I can do this. So I hail a cab and ask for St Barts hospital. The cabbie looks at me oddly, but complies. When we reach the hospital, I run inside without looking at the roof. It still hurts, even now I know it wasn't real. I rush up to the lab, only to find Molly crying, her head in her hands.

"Molly?" I say hesitantly. She looks up, startled.

"John? Why… Why are you here?"

"I need the letter, Molly, the one he gave you."

She closes her eyes and breathes out deeply. Then suddenly she's in my arms, pulling me in for a fierce hug.

"Thank you thank you thank you," she murmurs against my chest. She leans back and wipes away her tears, with a huge grin on her face.

"You have no idea how hard it has been to keep it a secret. You were so broken, John, so broken. And more than anything I wanted to tell you, but he made me swear not to, said your life was in danger if you knew too early, and I'm so sorry." She hugs me again, then dashes off.

I'm in shock. Molly knew?

She comes back in, still grinning, still crying, and hands me an envelope.

"Read it, and then try not to want to punch him," she says, stifling a giggle as I open it. I sit down on an uncomfortable lab stool and begin to read.

Certain phrases jump out at me. Your life was in danger, he was going to kill you John and I had to stop him. I missed you so much and I wanted to come home but I couldn't. My life was nothing without you. It was all necessary. I didn't think you cared so much. Please forgive me.

I look up to find Molly watching me nervously.

"Ok?" she asks.

"Fine," I reply, still in a daze.

"And by that you mean…"

"...like everything's falling apart." I bark out a laugh, "it is hard not to want to punch him."

I see a small smile drift across her face, gone almost before it started.

"It must have been...hard for you," I say carefully, "knowing when no one else did."

"Yes," she says simply.

I turn and start to walk away.

"He always looked so sad," she says. I turn, but she's not really talking to me. "He looked so sad when he thought you couldn't see him."

"What about you? You could see him..." Molly shakes her head.

"We both know it's different - me and you. I'm like a slave to him. I do his bidding and keep his secrets and he ignores me." She turns to me, and says quickly, "I don't mind, not really. At least he notices me sometimes."

"Of course he notices you," I say quietly.

She continues like I haven't even spoken. "You on the other hand, you mean so much more to him. He truly cares about you, John, more than he's ever cared about anyone before. He would do anything for you, and that scares him, makes him feel vulnerable. So he locks it all away, deep down inside that mind palace of his, in a room marked 'do not open' and he treats you like you don't mean much to him, and sometimes he's just downright mean, but still he cares. He's always cared." She stops, suddenly, as though she feels she's said too much.

"How do you know?" I whisper, my throat dry, my whole body tingling.

"I know what it means, to look sad when you think no one can see you."

Then she turns and walks away and leaves me standing alone in the lab.

I walk slowly home, so many thoughts barging against each other to get attention in my head. Sherlock is alive, Moriarty was going to have me killed, Molly knows, who else knows? Mycroft. Of course. That's why he appeared so suddenly after I'd seen Sherlock. Then I realised a more pressing concern. Where was he now, and how was I going to see him, and was I still strong enough to give a man a black eye.

"Where are you?" I whisper.

As if in answer to my question, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

221B. Come at once if convenient. -SH

I stare at it. He's there. He's really truly there.

If inconvenient, come anyway. Your sister is shouting at me. -SH

I almost laugh out loud. Of course Harry is shouting at you, you utter moron, you've been dead for nearly a year. I bet you scared the living daylights out of her. I chuckle quietly to myself and start to walk faster.

Please try not to punch him too hard. -MH

No promises Mycroft. -JW

Fair enough. Enjoy. -MH

I can hear Harry from halfway down the street. From the sound of it, she's been shouting for a while because I can't hear Sherlock - he must have given up shouting back. I take the stairs two at a time, and burst into the room. Harry is standing next to the window, and she stops shouting as she sees me come in. Sherlock is sitting in his chair, ignoring her. He looks up at the sudden silence, and his eyes light up like a little boy at Christmas when he sees me. I stands, and extends a hand towards me.

"Hello, Jo…" Thwack. My fist shoots out and hits him square on the forehead. He only has time to look vaguely surprised before he crumples to the floor, unconscious. My phone vibrates again.

Nice punch. I thought you were a doctor not a soldier. -MH

Army doctor. And yes, I will be looking after him when he regains consciousness. -JW

I expected nothing less. -MH

Harry slumps onto the sofa and puts her head in her hands. "Did you know he would be here?" she asks.

"Not before you did," I reply.

"He scared the hell out of me," she chuckles, "I damn near punched him myself."

"Do you think we're in shock?" I ask her.

"Well your best friend slash lover just came back from the dead, so I'd say yeah we are."

We grin at each other, then start laughing uncontrollably. I sink to the floor, clutching my stomach. Our laughter dies away quietly as Sherlock moans from where he lies on the floor and gingerly touches his forehead.

"Was that really necessary?" he winces.

"I thought you were dead, Sherlock!"

"I had to…" he starts to protest.

"Oh I know you had to," I interrupt, that still doesn't mean it's ok!" I storm off into the hallway, but pause at the top of the stairs when I hear Sherlock's voice.

"Does he hate me?" he asks, sounding so broken that I almost go back.

"No, he's just upset. He cares about you so much, and you really hurt him when you jumped. He's been blaming himself for your suicide. Fake or not, he believed it was real."

"He had to. They were going to kill him. I couldn't… I couldn't let that happen."

I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

"He loves you, you know," she says. I move my head sharply, and peak round the door to watch Sherlock. "He'd never admit it, but he does."

"Love?" Sherlock says quietly.

"Surely you've loved someone before!" she laughs, then stops as his head lowers. "Really?"

"There's no one else like John."

Harry looks at him for a moment, pity written all over her face.

"Love is wanting to grow old with someone. Love is being there even when someone hurts you or sends you away. It's holding their hand in the dark when they get scared, blocking out the cold. Love is caring so much that you would give up anything and everything to keep them safe, even your own happiness."

Sherlock opens his mouth and then closes it again. No sound comes out. I am standing in the middle of the doorway now. He looks so strange, so out of his depth. Lost.

"You were dead to him for so long Sherlock. You can't just waltz back in here and expect everything to go back to normal. You can't expect everything to be just how you left it." She spins and points at me. "Look at all the weight he's lost! Look at the shadows under his eyes! He missed you so much that it damn near killed him. For an all-seeing genius, you can be so blind!"

Harry pushes past me, down the stairs and out onto the street, cursing loudly. I look up to find Sherlock looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time. He can see now how thin and frail I am, how much older my eyes are. Shock and fear creep into his expression in equal measures.

"It can't be the same, can it?" he whispers, almost to himself.

"Not yet," I reply, "not yet. I'm not me anymore."

"You need time."

I nod. "And space."

"I understand." And I know that he does. He just doesn't like it.

"Be strong. I'll be home soon."

He smiles to himself so sadly that I think my heart will break. And it's nearly enough to make me get down on my knees and beg him to stay. Nearly.

"I'll miss you," he says and he brushes past me, and I close my eyes and breath in deeply, savoring this closeness. He smells of cigarettes and sadness.

And then he walks out of my life once again.


	7. Chapter Seven

Sherlock is alive. The thought keeps drumming through my head. He is alive and okay and back here for me and  _I sent him away_.

What was I thinking?

I'm just a coward. I can't face him because facing him means facing my feelings, means having to look into those beautiful eyes and not tell him that I love him. It was okay when he was dead and I could mourn everything we never had but now he's back and I should be ecstatic but I'm not because I'm so scared.

I move over to the window and gaze down Baker Street. In the attic window of the house opposite a figure sits, enveloped in shadows. I spy a wisp of cigarette smoke curling up into the air. He looks so young, almost boyish. No jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. So sexy, yet so innocent. He could be a model. Who am I kidding? Why would he even look at me twice?

I make myself a cup of tea, then sit and stare across at him. I know he's only there to watch over me, but I don't mind. This is his way of showing me that he cares. I decide then and there that I'm okay. That whatever has happened, however angry I am with him for lying to me,  _leaving me_ , I can deal with it. We can work through it. I want himback. He's like a drug to me. I went cold turkey for far too long, and I need my goddam fix. I pull my phone out of my pocket and pause before texting him the very words that got me hooked in the first place.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. JW_

_If inconvenient come anyway. JW_

_Could be dangerous. JW_

_Are you sure? SH_

I can hear his insecurities, his fears, months and months of pain, hidden in 3 little words. The old Sherlock would never have said that.

_Please just come home. JW_

I don't receive a reply, but a few minutes later I see a tall Belstaff coat sweep across the road and hear a tentative knock on the door below. I walk across the front room and down the stairs, and then open the door. My heart is racing, pounding in my chest. What will he say? What will he do?

It is such a relief to see him again; whole and alive and okay. He looks so unsure of himself, so nervous, looking down at his feet. I don't say anything - I just look at him, feasting my eye on his face.

Eventually he raises his head to look at me and I can see the wordless, unspoken apology in his eyes. An apology that he could never find a way to express out loud.

"Welcome home, Sherlock," I say. He smiles nervously.

"Home?"

"For as long as you want it to be."

"I think that's going to be for a very long time, don't you John?" He raises an eyebrow, and I grin. This is my Sherlock. But then he winked at me, and I knew that he wasn't talking about England or London or 221B. He was talking about me. He considers me his home.

"Always," I smile, and then motion for him to come inside. For him to finally, finally, come home.


	8. Chapter Eight

We tiptoe around each other. I don't want to pry into his time away. Whenever I speak to him I see a flash of fear in his eyes, and I think he's scared I'll send him away again. He is never sarcastic, never rude, and at first I count my blessings and enjoy the quiet. But after a few days of silence I am going insane with it. It was the old Sherlock I fell in love with. I miss body parts in the fridge, I miss violin at 3am, I miss  _him_. But he is going out of his way to be utterly perfect in every respect and I hate it. This isn't what I wanted back.

So I find myself snarling at him when he wakes me with tea or holds open a door. And every time he makes a face like a kicked puppy. But he never answers back, never stands up for himself. Which only serves to make me more frustrated.

A week after he came back, I snap.

"Why aren't you,  _you_ ," I scream, "it's like you're barely here, like you're a ghost!"

He puts on his wounded puppy face and looks down, mumbling apologies.

"No," I say, "no don't shut me out, tell me what's wrong,  _let me help you_."

His head snaps up and he sneers down at me. "What makes you think that  _you_  can help  _me_?"

I could have cried for joy.

"Yes, yes! That's you, that's who you are, rude and ungrateful and I don't want you any other way."

"You want me to be rude and ungrateful?" he says, confused.

"I want you to be you."

He laughs derisively, mocking me.

"No one else does."

He looks so broken and god it's just like looking in a mirror. We are two men torn apart, but maybe we can fix each other. I reach forward and touch his arm.

"Who cares about everyone else?" I say quietly.

"I thought you did."

I decide not to answer. How can I, when I only care if it hurts him?

My hand still lies on his arm and I let it run down to interlink my fingers with his. I hand't realised just how close he is standing to me, but I can almost feel electricity flickering in the air between us.

Sherlock looks utterly terrified but just right. He raises one sculpted eyebrow and I almost giggle at the ridiculousness of this. I am a totally straight man standing in the middle of a cluttered flat holding hands with my totally straight possibly asexual flat mate who is also supposedly dead. A week ago I was dreaming of this, and now it's actually happening and my stomach is clenching itself into knots. His lips are so deliciously perfect and oops I probably shouldn't have been staring but oh well. The way he's looking at me is almost sinful; I would sell my soul to the devil for just one kiss.

Sherlock blinks and pulls back slightly, and I realise that it was only me who was ready for this, only me who wanted this. I just nearly kissed my  _straight, male flatmate_  and heat rises in my cheeks.

"Sorry," he whispers, and then he is gone, sweeping out the door faster that Matt's regeneration into Capaldi. Blink and you'll miss it.

And I am left standing alone in the flat once again.


	9. Chapter Nine

Sherlock doesn't return until the wee small hours of the morning. I am still up when he attempts to sneak in, prepared to stay awake for as long as it takes.

"I thought you'd be asleep," he comments lightly, the way you'd talk about the weather.

"Just wanted to make sure you were okay," I reply in the same tone, "didn't want to get a call from Mycroft at 3am."

He chuckles at that, and I let out a shaky breath.

'Look, John, about earlier…"

"No. No need to explain. I overstepped the mark and I'm sorry and it won't happen again and," I take a deep breath, "I can move out, if you want."

He takes a step towards me, a sly spark in his eyes.

"I was going to say that I felt we had something to finish, but if you'd rather we forgot about it…"

"No!" I blurt out before I can get my brain in gear, and I wince as I realise how outright needy I sound. Nice one, John. But Sherlock only leaps forward and captures my lips with his own. Heaven itself couldn't taste this good. I stifle a breathy moan as a perfect hand reaches round my waist, one finger tracing the gap between my jumper and trousers. I push harder against his mouth. This is awkward and messy and definitely not practiced, but somehow that just makes it all the sweeter. Like we're discovering something new together.

We emerge a few minutes later, gasping for air.

"People will talk," he teases, moving his lips down my jaw line.

"People do little else," I shoot back.

He pulls back and I see all his shirt buttons are undone.  _When did that happen?_

"You did that," he grins, deduction spot on as always. I roll my eyes.

And then we both burst out laughing, the tension between us finally broken. We're not perfect, not by a long shot, and I don't think we ever will be. There are a lot of broken pieces to pick up after the mess Moriarty made. But we have each other. So that's okay.

We've found each other again.


End file.
